constantly revolving

my coworker laura stays a member of yahoo personals, she says, for the sheer entertainment. it's only big, black men that send her messages. i tell her it's because she accidentally joined "blackmen.personals.yahoo.com." just read this little nugget, though, from her latest suitor:

"Hi, i'm jules, I just moved from London,UK a couple months back but i'm originally from North Carolina, have also lived in Germany and Italia as well. I really have a very creative/romantic side nearly 24/7 especially, when i am / or not inspired! I have always considered myself ultra romantic in every sense of the word! I love venturing around the city and being spontaneous whether its a weekend getaway, dancing billiards, art galleries or a walk alongside the hudson. I enjoy composing music and writing sonnets/poetry in my leisure times I try to stay active as much as my energy will allow, even more importantly, I am very interested in making a contribution to making difference with my gift of creativity in whatever medium I can apply my creativity towards. Poetically speaking,.... I consider myself a self-God, a piercing bright light of an embers fire, constantly revolving in every direction, seeking wisdom, truth, purpose... I am victoriously sound in mind, body and life-force. and illuminious kaleidoscope of dreams that scream reality!!I am one who respects one's self and others. As far as whom i would like to date. I am wanting to move mountains either in her heart or her mind for she is a mirror replica of a rose with fresh thorns and at the same time,a soft, delicate and yet emerging in utlimate feminity. She is also someone who enjoy s being who she is and what she's becoming. For she knows who she is and she will come to me so and when it's my time, I will welcome her with open arms!"

WOW.

listen.

okay, readers, ready thyselves for yet another dashboard confessional blog entry. i'm sorry. really i am. but i just have to say this.

there's a song on the new album that, if you can actually stop imagining yourself married to chris carrabba and moving to florida with him to live in his big house and go swimming all day long and then eventually settle down and adopt a chinese baby girl that you'll name ling carrabba, wait what was i saying? oh yeah. if you listen to the lyrics of this song, you'll hear that it's written from, in my opinion, a young veteran of war, who's returning home after combat:

It's the simple things Dad,
I'm not hurt
I'm not dead
I just should be where my friends are lying
And I didn't hate those that I killed
But they're all dead now
And I'm here alive
With satellites
And Friday nights
And no one to judge me
For the things that I've done at all
So how can I live with that

it reminds me of something i saw on, of all things, kathy griffin's show. she went to iraq on a uso tour and said something like, "these people are teenagers. when i think of teenagers i think of the brats in laguna beach. but these people have an age in their eyes for someone so young." or something. most striking to me is that this war we're in, this quagmire, if you will, has so permeated our culture that riotously strong anti-war sentiments are showing up in places like kathy griffin shows and dashboard confessional albums.

it's one thing, i mean, for the people you expect--bob dylan or neil young or ani difranco--to come out against the war. even the boss (that's bruce springsteen, you know). but kathy griffin? chris carrabba (my future husband)? and the way they're saying it, the things they're doing, they're not just doing them because it's what's cool in hollywood right now. like the way everyone wore red ribbons ten years ago.

so if we're all screaming about the war, and all of our artists and even our comedians are taking a stand against it, why isn't anyone listening?

haneous

big, totally gross, news, people! okay so it's only big and gross if you watch a lot of logo, the gay cable network.

my two least favorite people on logo--nay, my two least favorite famous homosexuals--jason bellini (the host of CBS news on logo who always looks at the person he's interviewing like they just laid a gigantic turd on his front lawn) and will wickle (ex-big-brother celebrity who now hosts the useless travel program round trip ticket and relentlessly screams "WE GO THERE!") not only share a network.

they are life partners.

they've combined evil, hateful forces to be the next gay-pseudo-power couple. no one is safe. in the words of read your blog, shelby: HANEOUS!

two things

well, dear readers, i'm spending this thursday just like i've spent the last two thursdays (or fridays): hungover at my desk. what's funny is that i choose to stay in on friday nights lately, preferring instead to watch a netflixed movie or cook or go out to dinner, so that i can get up on saturday and enjoy my day. instead of limiting my "going out" (or, more accurately, getting drunk on a back porch) to saturday, though, i've been staying up late either wednesday or thursday night. because, you know, that's so close to the weekend. lately it's been beers on cory's back porch followed by trips to the 'tross. last night was no exception, minus the trashy dive bar.

instead, cory and i drank strong beers, and then instead of listening to my head and going home i listened to my heart and had another drink and played "piano bar" with cory, which means trading off turns at the piano while the singing torch songs. sometimes i just love being a homosexual. when i write sentences like that, i always think about the impending george w. bush-led gay holocaust and all of the internet evidence they'll have to use against me.

anyway.

walking to work this morning i was listening to the new dashboard confessional cd. now, i know what you're going to say. i'm not a seventeen year old midwestern junior in high school girl, so i have no business listening to this cd. and you'd be right. chris carrabba, however, will always be my rock and roll boyfriend. hilary and i are friends, for one, because of our mutual lust for him. and nowadays he might be nothing but another teeny bopper punk fake-o, but there was a time when he put out the most heartfelt, earnest, angsty, wonderful music. music where you could hear his cords ripping over his accoustic guitar. before things like the mtv unplugged special, the one where you can't hear him singing over the legion of teenagers singing along, happened. before he played in arenas.

the writing is still the same, for the most part: rip-your-heart-open teenage angst. what's different is the way i hear it. it seems so juvenile to me now. even the first couple cd's, the ones i listened to literally on repeat for three months, seem so emotionally overwrought. it's as if i can't remember what it's like to feel what he's singing about, as if i've made myself grow right up and out of the heady emotions in which i used to swim.

i think that's enough to think about at 9:37am.

a loss

well, folks, yesterday we got some pretty awful news, at least for those of us who love really fucking good rock and roll:

"After more than a decade of making impassioned, empowered punk rock, Sleater-Kinney have decided to go on 'indefinite hiatus.'"

yep, one of my favorite bands is done. apparently, the show i'm seeing in august at webster hall is their next-to-last. should be interesting.

what sucks about s-k breaking up is that, far from what most 11-year-old bands do, they just put out the best album of the career, if not one of the best rock albums i've ever heard. in an era pockmarked by avril lavigne, ashlee and jessica simpson, and a horrible new liz phair, s-k was one of the few remaining rock bands i know that actually surprise me with their invention, their talent.

but, like most artists i know, their talent comes with more than a hint of darkness. it's the way, i think, that artists learn to balance that darkness, harness it, that makes us able to survive. the most talented people i know--the composers, writers, musicians--are happy people for the most part, yet share the same dark undercurrent, a sliver of mercury that runs just below the surface. they create by tapping into it, use it for their humor, their pathos, and then are able to put it away.

i was just talking to ben yesterday about being able to write better when i'm in a darker mood. he agreed that his invention is better when he's feeling dark. i suggested that maybe, before i write, i should just put boys for pele on repeat for half an hour. because writing about kittens frolicking in wheat fields under a rainbow sky never really has been my forte.

done and done

well, folks, i finally did it: i bought an air conditioner at PC richards last night. i went to pc richards (for those of you not in the upper-mid-atlantic, it's like, um, circuit city. but it's owned by a guy named pc richard) because, unlike mr. city or mr. buy, i've actually met pc richard himself. he came into my temp job at the real estate company with his big crazy jewish wife because they'd bought one of the four million dollar condos (and had supplied the whole building with gas ranges). he was very friendly. he gave me his card, which i still have because i think it's funny. it has his real phone number on it. i was tempted to call him and say, "mr. richard? may i call you peter? well listen, peter, i just bought an a/c at your astoria, queens branch! how are you!?" this would immediately be followed by "no. robert. you know, the temp with the really gay tie/shirt combination. no, not that one. i quit about two months ago."

anyway, after much him-hawing about the details, such as:

• how i would get to a place that actually sold air conditioners
• how i would choose an air conditioner
• how i would deal with the inevitably pushy, scary straight man in the a/c department
• how i would physically carry the a/c unit from the store to the corner
• how i would hail a cab while guarding my newly-purhcased a/c, which would be sitting on the corner
• how i would choose to go to target, home depot, sears, or pc richard, and then if i should go in manhattan or queens

...i finally just googled pc richard. i found out that not only is there a pc richard in my neighborhood, it was within walking distance. apparently amanda and hilary already knew this. why they didn't share this bit of information with me while i was having daily, sweaty panic attacks about how i was getting to target i don't know.

so last night, after i'd called amanda at work to make sure she'd go with me to pc richards, we ate dinner then made the short trek to the store. within ten minutes i was the owner of a new, shiny but cheap room air conditioner. amanda and i pretended to be husband and wife by "shopping" for air conditioners with our arms around each other. while i was checking out she said, "honey, i'm very impressed by the way you picked out our new air conditioner." and i said, "that's why you married me!" where are our wedding rings? um, we, uh, didn't want to damage them air conditioner shopping.

next up: installing the room air conditioner without hurling it out the window and through the roof below. i'll let you know if this happens.

email correspondance between robert and his new crohns doctor

robert: Not that I'm a huge drinker [har har], but what are the restrictions with alcohol and 6MP? [my new crohns drug.]

doctor: Single malts and tequilas only. No known interactions. Drink responsibly.

robert: Thanks!

all the muscles you can stand

okay, dear readers, i finally have it together enough to blog about the weekend. it's only taken me three hours to wake up and prop myself up at my desk. and yes, i'm at work. i've been at work since 9:30. wow.

so yesterday's "steady, soaking rain" turned out to be one five-minute rainshower. other than that, it was beautiful weather: cool, breezy. the kind of cool breeze that you need when you're on a pier with 5000 shirtless gay men. oh yeah, that. so i went to pier dance yesterday, which is officially my first circuit party. it's definitely going to be a once-a-year experience: i can't do it to my body more than once a year. these people who follow the circuit, who partied, for instance, from friday night until this morning, i will never understand. and you can see them at pier dance, their eyes wild and tweaking. they didn't look like they were having a particularly good time so much as they just looked angry, desperately making out with each other. circuit parties. good times.

yesterday's new york pride star sightings included (but may not be limited to, since i was in no position to remember): that hateful guy who does "cbs news on logo" (you know, the one who looks like he smells shit every time he interviews someone); ari gold, HOT jewish gay r&b singer; and jenny from the block herself, who sang a set at the end of pier dance, and whose hair was bigger than my apartment. we were hoping for xtina to make an appearance, but since the rumor mill said the guest was to be bananarama, j-lo was a great surprise. and i could see her, which was the most surprising thing, since i was blocked by all that muscle.

speaking of which, all that muscle. like, after yesterday i no longer need to see pecs or arms. i've seen enough to last me for the rest of my life. pier dance was SICK with muscle queens. i'm immune. at least until next year.

dammit

happy new york gay pride, everyone:

"Rain showers this morning, becoming a steady, soaking rain during the afternoon hours with a few rumbles of thunder possible. High 76F. Winds ESE at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of rain 80%. Rainfall may reach one inch. Locally heavy rainfall possible."

yay!!! a STEADY, SOAKING rain!!! since when did weather channel.com start using adjectives like "soaking?"

look, i'm a writer!

All Aboard

“I want to ask you out on a date,” Steve said to me. “What are you doing Saturday?”

“Haven’t we already been on a date?” I asked. “We hung out every day last week. Do you really have to ask me out officially?” I was new at dating in New York, but I was fairly sure that it was like dating anywhere else. Anywhere else, that is, on the East coast, where everything is either permanently casual or speed-dating. So Steve asking me out seemed like an unnecessary formality.

“No, I mean all day Saturday. I’m planning a day for us,” he said excitedly.

Oh.

When I imagine all-day Saturday dates, very specific images fill my head: big brown wicker picnic baskets splayed open on blankets, their contents being fed to me, my eyes romantically locked with my lover’s; or running through a field holding hands; or making out next to or underneath a waterfall. These are the all-day Saturday dates I imagine, not that any of them have ever happened to me. I spend most Saturdays with people I’m dating at the mall. Or drinking. These are activities I feel comfortable with: shopping, beer consumption. They aren’t grandly romantic, but they never fail to bring two people together.

Adding to the stress of my first big, romantic date was that Steve wouldn’t tell me what we were doing. I was to come to his house, just down the street from mine, and we’d go from there. I don’t do spontaneous very well. I need to know, for instance, what kind of shoes I should be wearing. Every activity has a corresponding shoe; if I don’t know what I’m doing, how can I possibly pick the right one? It’s not just shoes, though, it’s everything. I like to know what’s happening at all times so that I can be prepared. Steve’s instructions—to meet at his house, not knowing if we were going horseback riding or snorkeling or fly-fishing—made me nervous.

It wasn’t until we were on the train that he finally divulged the first part of his plan for our date: a picnic in the park, complete with a blanket and the perfect setting. I like picnics and I was comfortable with Steve, but if this had been a first date I would have been in my own personal hell. There’s just so much pressure when it comes to being romantic.

When we finished eating, he let me in on the next part of our day together, which was to be row boating at the Reservoir in Central Park. Now, to my straight-girl roommates, this would be a date made in heaven. In their minds, the only better date would be if they were whisked off to Cartier’s in a helicopter. If no helicopters were available, however, it would be a boat ride. And here I was, on the boat.

I’m not like my straight-girl roommates. The idea of getting on a boat that I’m going to have to figure out how to row made me feel ridiculous. Conspicuous. Stared-at. Whether or not people would actually be looking at me, I knew I’d feel like I was wearing assless chaps and a big pink sandwich sign that said something like “Please do not feed the homosexuals.” And here we were, in Central Park of all places, actually rowing a boat.

It’s not that it wasn’t nice--once I got over myself and my neuroses and just enjoyed Steve’s company I had a great time. As with most things that I’ve dreaded but have eventually forced myself into--that trapeze class, for instance--it turned out to be something that I was glad I’d done, though I probably never need to do it again. What, then, was my problem? Why couldn’t I deal with Steve’s undeniably thoughtful, well-planned day for us?

I am, apparently, too jaded for grand romantic gestures. There was a point in my life when I would’ve thrilled at the idea of someone planning a day with me. Could it be that years of expecting too little from men has made me unable to expect anything? That I have no idea how to respond to so much because I’m used to accepting so little?

Why should I feel ridiculous because a man wants to make me happy, wants to take me, for at least an afternoon, out of the shell I’ve built for myself? I’ve spent 26 years in this shell, so maybe it’s time to try something different.

Like a boat ride in Central Park.

my review.

i just got back from doing something hysterical: vacuuming (i know that's spelled wrong but i'm too lazy to look it up) dust samples in my coworker's apartment in columbus circle. it's part of work certification, but still. there were pictures taken of me wearing latex gloves, intently vacuuming a lounge chair. and, of course, since we were in columbus circle anyway, we had a ridiculous lunch at this third-floor cafe in the time warner center that overlooked the circle. and coffee and dessert. basically a two-hour wonderful lunch break. and my coworker insisted on picking up the tab. someday maybe i can pay back peoples' generosity. let's hope.

for the last two days i've been having these very "i'm in new york now" moments. today's lunch, for instance. we took a cab from work to my coworker's house--something i never do, because cabs are more expensive than, you know, waiting 45 minutes for a train--which already felt luxurious. but then to be in the time warner center, having lunch at this fancy cafe, followed by another cab ride through central park, was nearly too much. too unbelievable, sometimes, that i'm from ponca city, where, as natalie maines says, my friends from high school married their high school boyfriends and moved into houses in the same zip codes where their parents lived.

well, my friends didn't do that. my friends all got the fuck out, too. the people who stuck around were acquaintances.

i went to see threepenny opera last night, so let me write a short review (dear new york times: please feel free to use this in sunday's paper. just pay me if you do.)

ahem.

'the roundabout theater company produced a spotty rendition of threepenny opera last night at studio 54, a venue that's seen more fags and blow than david gest's living room. alan cumming did a wonderful job of being alan cumming pretending to be evil, playing a cross between cabaret's emcee and sleeping beauty's mellificent. "i can't believe how awful nellie mckay is!" exclaimed one robust, hairy jewish audience member seated next to me. "doesn't she make her living singing??" "yes, she does," i happily replied. "but i really like her performance because it's proven to me exactly how batshitcrazy she really is!" the real shining star of the evening's performance, besides cyndi lauper's rapidly-shredding vocal cords, was isaac mizrahi's costuming, which could best be described as "1984 suburban punk." not content to let us figure out that every fucking person in the show was decidedly ambisexual by virtue of them all making out with each other all the time, isaac decided to put all the men in platform heels while he put all the ladies in shiny doc martens. god forbid alan cumming play a character that won't fuck anything that moves. we get it, alan. you're a sexual person. you love the mens, you love the vag. now try playing a character.'

by robert m.

never fear

never fear, dearest readers, i'm not in the hospital again. i know that most of you assume this to be the case if i don't blog until nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, and i don't blame you. it's true that the only two weekdays i haven't entered a little gem into this journal were the times i've been in the hospital. crohns hasn't attacked again (no thanks to my doctor, who still hasn't call me back. the fucker.), though, so don't you worry about me.

more importantly, i'm going to see threepenny opera tonight with stadler and his girlfriend, who shall henceforth be called vicki. it'll be my first broadway show since i saw cabaret with amanda when i was 18. i know what you're going to say. i know that i live in new york and i should be taking advantage of it, going to see all the shows i can, that i can get student rush tickets, that i'll regret not going to see things like sweeny todd before they leave the great white way. i know that. but i also know that i love going home after work, eating dinner, and going to the gym. oh, and then i like to watch some gay tv on logo.

when ryan proposed tonight's little trip, though, i couldn't turn it down. though threepenny has gotten amazingly bad reviews--it's too long, choppy, poorly-acted, poorly-sung, etc.--i've wanted to see it since i heard it was on. mainly because of the completely fucked-up cast: alan cumming (loony), cyndi lauper (a bow to my queens pride), and nellie mckay (ew!). the first question everyone asks when i tell them i'm going is, "oh, did you get the tickets for free?" no, people, i am not quite hooked up in new york the way i was in baltimore. i'm working on it. until then, i pay for my theater tickets, even when it's for bad theater.

i have to get home right after the show, though, to get some beauty rest: nyc pride is this weekend.

obstacles

every morning when i walk to work people try to shove things into my hands. not money or gold bullion, mind you, or even hamburgers. no, it's menus, pamphlets about jesus, pamphlets about massage parlors, fliers for geico. oh, and let's not forget free copies of a.m. new york or new york metro, two papers i always refuse because i'm trying to trudge my way through a non-fiction book called the devil in the white city. at ten pages a day i should be done, let's see, in february.

refusing these pamphlets and papers is always a little awkward, though. most of the time i don't really care: the people trying to hand me the flyers look hateful themselves, especially when they're the ones handing out the jesus flyers. i just whiz right past them as they attempt to shove the pieces of paper into my hands. i sometimes wonder if they're just trying to trick me into taking it, like if they tickle my hand with the flyer it'll respond like a venus fly trap, grasping anything that touches it.

i feel bad, though, for the nice-looking people, the people who pass out newspapers or menus and clearly have no choice but to try to pass out newspapers and menus, people who are just trying to make an honest living. this is where i get uncomfortable. how do i respond to these people? do i say "no, thank you," to every single one? i'd be hoarse by the time i got to work. instead i smile at them while making no hint that i'll be taking a paper, keeping my arms tightly to my sides.

and then i get to work, exhausted.

handshake and a smile

i spent a delightful evening last night, reminiscent of my days in spanish harlem. no, dear readers, i wasn't running away from puerto ricans screaming "faggot!" at me in spanish. i was laying there, drenched in sweat, trying (fruitlessly) to sleep even though my room was literally 85 degrees. i had memories of that summer at scott's house flooding back to me: rolling around, even a sheet too heavy, dripping sweat onto the pillow. it was that kind of night again, the kind of night where i take a sleeping pill and still lay there, awake, miserable, until 4am. of course it's my fault: i haven't bothered taking a cab to target to buy an air conditioner. mainly because i'm too embarrassed to get into a cab and say "take me to target on queens boulevard" and then try to call a car service from target, carrying an air conditioner. but here in new york that's the kind of things we do. because we don't want to lay there bathed in our own sweat.

speaking of being awake until 4am, i had another audition today. the wonderful thing about my job is that i was able to take it in the middle of the day--it's flexible enough that i can just make the time up by coming in early and staying late. the audition was for a really nice guy who runs a company called american opera projects, a group that stages new chamber operas. now, is this exactly up my alley? yes it is. is it something that would be awesome to be involved in? yes. am i expecting to be cast, since i sang well? not really.

i don't say this to be pessimistic at all; my musician/actor friends will know exactly what i'm talking about. you just go, do your best, and then kind of wait for the rejection letter in the mail. all the people at my job were excited for me today, saying they were a little nervous for me. i told them, trying not to sound too jaded, "i'm not nervous. it's just something i do."

which is true. i take a lot of auditions, most of which lead to nothing. auditions aren't exciting or special. they're about as exciting as waiting in line at starbucks, but at least at starbucks you know you're going to leave with a delicious tall skim latte. all you leave auditions with are a handshake and a smile. if you're lucky.

a sandwich sign and assless chaps

first of all, let's just talk about one thing: it's friday. the week went fast, a few good things happened, and, again, it's friday. it's going to be a good day.

i was on the train this morning and a woman got on who was very put together: perfect hair and makeup, sassy outfit, shoes that matched her handbag. did i just say handbag? yes i did. paging carson kressley. anyway, her look just says i spent some time on this, motherfuckers, and you all better notice. so i noticed. i mainly noticed, though, because it is eight-thirty in the morning. eight-thirty. to look like that, that early, means that she's gotten out of bed at probably 6am. because she's not just leaving her house at 8:30; she's already on a train in manhattan. it takes me over an hour to get to that point, and i'm a slob these days.

something about living in new york has had the opposite effect on my wardrobe that i thought it would. i assumed that when i moved here i'd have to really step it up a notch; you know, because there are all these hot-ass david barton gym faggots and celebrities running around everywhere. and i couldn't imagine myself in my ripped jeans and 8-year-old vintage polo. apparently, though, i was wrong. if anything, i've started caring less about my appearance. my friend perri, who works with me, tells me that he "rolls into his clothes." though i know that's just a figure of speech, i've spent several minutes over the course of a few weeks imagining what perri would look like rolling into clothes. i picture him dropping to his bedroom carpet, aiming for a laundry pile, and rolling around until his limbs have somehow found their way into arm- and leg-holes.

i feel to an extent like i've started rolling into my clothes. i wear the same pair of jeans to work every day for five days in a row. i pick a pair on monday; when i'm not wearing them (my apartment is hot and i immediately change into mesh shorts the instant i get home) they live at the foot of my bed. on saturday they go to the laundry and i pick a new pair for the week. in grad school, or even at hopkins, i wouldn't have done such a thing. nor would i have even considered wearing out of the house any of the hand-me-down, sometimes ill-fitting t-shirts i've been favoring lately.

it's not depression that's making me do this; it's not giving up on looking good. i think it's because there are just so many people here all doing their own thing, it's obvious that no one actually notices what you're wearing. sure, i still make an effort if i'm going out with friends or going to the gay bar, but even then i can't help but feel like everyone is so caught up in their own thing that it doesn't really matter what i'm wearing.

maybe i should really test this theory, really go to extremes. maybe i'll start doing things like wearing andre-from-project-runway-style short-shorts. or maybe a sandwich sign or assless chaps. the thing is, in new york, no one would even notice.

watch out

i just wanted to make sure that everyone and their MOM reads the comment that nakia left on today's blog posting.

"I am being very serious when I say that so help me God if someone touches you I will have the whole South Bronx Dominicans looking for their asses. My cousin is a cop and if you ever need help or a ride home, just let me know. He will pop a cap in their asses."

power to MISS KIA!

i'm not that political...till you piss me off.

those of you who don't live in new york (or obsessively read gay blogs like i do) might not have heard about what happened over the weekend, but it's a little upsetting: a gay (drag-ish) performer named kevin aviance was jumped by four teenagers in the east village on his way home from the phoenix. he was released from the hospital a couple days later, his jaw wired shut. now, depending how you feel about kevin aviance, his jaw being wired shut may actually be a blessing in disguise, but that's beside the point. the point is, violence against gay people doesn't just happen in montana and south dakota and rural oklahoma (sorry, home state, it's true).

last night at the albatross (caw!), astoria's own dive gay bar, a man got up on stage (it was open mic night, aka dykes with mikes) and talked about the kevin aviance attack as well as another attack that apparently happened last weekend in astoria, at 34th street and broadway. now, i live at 33rd street and broadway (for all you would-be stalkers out there!), and the fact that there's been anti-gay violence a block away from my pad makes me just a little nervous.

once the first man was done speaking, the drag queen/hostess took the mic and continued: "now, i don't know where you all are from, but i'm from texas. it's not safe to be gay in texas. i came here because i knew it was somewhere i would be safe to be myself. so please, take action. make sure it's safe to walk home from here; for me to walk home from here. in heels." her words really did strike a chord with me. i don't look over my shoulder as much here as i did in baltimore, or even indiana or oklahoma. there's generally such a live-and-let-live (or don't-fuck-with-me) vibe in new york that i'm never really concerned about being jumped or attacked or pummelled with spray paint cans (a la kevin aviance). clearly, i need to be a little more careful.

the more i've been thinking about this recent spat of violence, though, the more i've realized just how much the climate is changing for gay people in this country. in the late 90's and early 00's all kinds of progressive things were happening, thanks in no small part to clinton/gore. sure, he signed "don't ask/don't tell," but he also never would've pushed for a federal "protection of marriage" amendment.

things are getting pretty uncomfortable for gay people here; it's something you can feel as soon as you leave the liberal bubble of the northeast. we're suddenly facing government-sanctioned discrimination, which does nothing but send a message to every would-be homophobe that it's ok to hate us. our government is setting an example of which it should be ashamed. and every faggot, every drag queen, every butch dyke that is attacked and left bleeding in the street can thank george w and his cronies for fostering a climate in which it could happen. and when they're done thanking him, they can send him their hospital bills.

a lil blog about crohns

since, dearest readers, i know that you're all chomping at the bit to know how my first crohn's doctor's appointment went (wait, you did actually know that i saw my new crohns doctor for the first time yesterday, right? you didn't? what kind of friend are you? screw you!) yesterday, i'll write a lil' blog entry about it.

first of all, doctors offices are never quick. at anything. even though i got to my appointment fifteen minutes early, i wasn't seen until forty-five minutes after it was to have started. now, had the nurse not profusely apologized for making me wait so long (i know, i was shocked, too), i would've been amazingly pissed off. but, since i had my book with me and, let's face it, i don't have a lot of choice when it comes to rescheduling a crohns visit, the wait wasn't terrible.

the good news is that my doctor seems to be really on top of his shit, no pun intended. and he has the bedside manner of a hollywood actor. as he was talking to me about his favorite operas, the study i'm working on, blah blah blah, i was like, do you think i'm access hollywood? but it's better that than my recent experience with the horrible dr. constantine anagnostopolis, the insane greek doctor i saw literally twice during my entire recent hospitalization. basically, the doctor reiterated what my doctor at hopkins had said: that my current therapy clearly isn't working (two hospitalizations in as many months? that's not normal?) and that we're going to step up my medication.

unlike my last doctor, though, he took a long time explaining exactly how the drug works, what the alternatives are, how they're going to determine dosage. basically giving me a hand in my own treatment, which is refreshing after two years of taking sixteen pills a day and achieving mixed results.

so, bottom line with the crohns: surgeries: 0; unfortunate (or smelly) accidents on the subway: 0; new drugs to try: 1; spirits: high but cautious.

unleash the beast

i used to wax my chest. those of you who don't know me will say "oh, robert. what does that matter? a lot of people wax their chest hair!" but you don't understand. i have, basically, the chest hair of a 40 year old man and have since i was 17 years old. to wax my chest was an incredible undertaking that took upwards of 45 minutes. the worst time, the woman doing the waxing kept saying "oof, i'm glad this is you and not me. this must be painful!" i wanted to scream "YES, it's painful. now shut the fuck UP and rip the hair out of me!" instead i grimaced and smiled and nodded. it was me at the end of my body-hair rope: i'd tried shaving, nair-ing, sugaring. every time it came back fast, irritated, thicker. my body just would not accept that i needed to be smooth, like all the men with their shirts off in the clubs in dc, the men in the magazines. or like the man i was dating, a man as naturally muscular and smooth as a fucking marble statue, a man i felt like i was chasing the whole time we dated.

even though i trim my chest hair now (i thank god haven't [yet] grown enough back hair that it's a big problem. but the time, my dear readers, will come.), i haven't had the urge to shave it off in a few years. i keep it trimmed because, let's face it, nobody really wants to look like magnum PI anymore.

a great thing about living in new york, though, is that there are legions of men here who love guys with hairy chests. love. like, um, it's one of their biggest turn-ons. most guys on everyone's favorite, um, internet "dating" site say things like "your hairy chest is so fucking hot." only one has said something to me about only "being into smooth dudes." yes, he said dudes. and i wanted to say back to him, "so you'll be too busy trolling the playground to meet up for coffee? that's ok."

for the first time in my life, though, i have a better body image, a better attitude about my chest hair and how i look. i suppose it's because of the sheer number of men in new york, the fact that if someone doesn't like you there are plenty more who will. as i said to scott at christopher street pier on sunday (which i didn't blog about, but trust me, it's insane. imagine more muscles than an issue of inches and speedos and homos all oiling each other up. fun.), "if you don't like chest hair we ain't gon' fuck." yeeeeeah new york.

my home now

as i walked to work today (still sick with a cold, but getting better, it seems, day by day; i'm still on the nightly nyquil plan.) i was thinking about moving, about starting a new life here in new york. specifically, i remembered what it was like to move to baltimore from depauw, to have left behind all of my college friends, everything i knew, even the midwest. and i find myself feeling very similar things now that i did then: a feeling of loneliness, i suppose, of displacement. in baltimore, i had a very strong, close-knit group of friends. well, until the last few months i was there and everyone had moved. in new york, though, i have just a few close friends and i haven't really found my niche. what i have to keep reminding myself, though, is that this is all still new; that this will eventually feel like home, just the way baltimore came to.

i remember talking to emily on the phone the fall i moved to baltimore, before i met any of the people that would become my closest friends. i'd stand there in the underground parking garage of 1010, the wretched highrise i lived in the first year i was in baltimore, talking to her for hours, because i was homesick, because there was really no one else to talk to. we talked about boys (i was going through a messy breakup), and about feeling a little like a stranger in a strange land, much the way that i still feel in new york.

it's only been two months here, after all. and, for only having been here two months, i've already settled in quite nicely. i'm slowly finding my place here. and, someday, astoria will feel like home; things will stop being completely new everywhere i turn. i'll have my favorite restaurants and my favorite bars and feel a sense of place and stasis just the way i did in baltimore.

when a coworker of mine got my cellphone number, he said, "what the hell area code is that?" "baltimore," i told him. "why don't you get a new yawk numba?" he asked (he's from long island, bless his heart.) "i don't know," i said. "well, ya need to. yuh not in baltimore anymoah. new yawk is yuh home now."

i know it is.

dirty hangover

shh, dear readers, don't talk too loudly. even though i have to work this morning, i went last night to astoria's (rapidly becoming more famous) beer garden with cory (my first-ever camp boyfriend who randomly lives in astoria), his boyfriend, and his friend michael. afterward we went to albatross, a gay bar that literally could be any dive bar in baltimore. and for this reason it feels like home. and now, since i'm a lil' hungover to be writing a blog, here's this week's dirty laundry.

Adonis

“Yeah,” my roommate Hilary said to me, freshly in from a run, “but your definition of fat is way different that most peoples’ definition of fat. You think someone’s fat if they don’t have a visible six-pack. But guess what, Robert. You might just have to get over that. I mean, what if you meet a really nice guy?"

"Um, obviously,” I told her, "I'd give him a chance. But you date straight guys, and for straight guys it’s totally different. Straight guys are supposed to have beer bellies or back hair. It’s expected.” Instead of justifying this clearly weak argument, Hilary merely rolled her eyes and turned around to walk out of the room, peeling off her sweaty running shirt as she went. This discussion was over: Hilary, one; Robert, zero.

My conversation with Hilary had taken a wildly different turn than one I’d had with Adam, a friend (and ex-boyfriend), earlier that day. He’d been dating a guy for a few weeks and had informed me, nonchalantly, that he’d put him on a diet.

“Excuse me?” I said, hardly believing what he’d just told me.

“Yes,” Adam said, laughing, “he’s on the Abs Diet. Because I told him he should be. I don’t want to sound like an a**hole here, but he’s the, um, least in-shape person I’ve ever dated.”

“Well,” I said, “just let him know that your ex-boyfriend is coming to visit next month. Tell him that I work out five times a week, that I’m extremely hot and judgmental, and that I insist that everyone I hang out with be shirtless at all times. We’ll call it ‘Shirts-Off Weekend.’ That’ll motivate him.” They broke up two weeks later.

All kidding aside, my conversation with Adam made me think: how superficial is it OK to be when you’re dating someone? So much—at least at the beginning of a relationship—is based on chemistry and physical attraction, it seems like it should be a top priority. Along with personality, a sense of humor, and having a good job, of course.

And if so, why is it bad to admit that you’re not attracted to someone because they, for instance, could use a few weeks on the Abs Diet? I think that anyone, if they’re being honest, no matter how good their intentions, would tell you that they have a specific type they’re attracted to. When it comes down to it, we’re all a little superficial when we meet someone at first, all a little surface-oriented.

My problem, though, is that I live in New York City, a place unlike anywhere else when it comes to dating. In New York, there’s always something better just around the corner, always someone with a better body, a hotter face, a more sparkling personality. The sheer number of gay guys here makes it nearly impossible to settle for something less than you think you deserve.

But if I never give a guy a chance because of stupid, superficial things--a hairy neck or bad shoes--if I’m so convinced that there’s an Adonis just around the corner somewhere, how will I ever actually get to know someone for who they are? It’s a terrifying thought to me, that I might waste my 20’s chasing some ideal man when there were all these great guys along the way, guys who I never got to know well enough to appreciate their imperfections.

The best relationships I’ve had, the ones that have ended in lifelong friendships, weren’t based solely on physical attraction. They were with men who were flawed, but whose flaws, whose quirks, somehow fit them perfectly, made them who they are. It’s humanizing, I think, to recognize someone’s faults, and to admit your own. Which is why, in this city, we all strive to be as perfect as possible, and get so used to looking only on the surface. Because once you see me for who I am, in a hospital bed or first thing in the morning, you know me much more deeply, and that makes most people uncomfortable.

So I’ll try for this: to see a person beyond his ass or his chest or his face or his hair. To see someone for who he is—human, just like me, with a mother and a coming-out story and a medley of insecurities. And maybe then he’ll see me the same way.

congratulations

for the second time in my life now i'm entrenched in a battle for crohn's medication. a battle, specifically, with my new insurance carrier and the fact that i once again am rapidly running out of medication. yet each time i've tried to switch insurance--both when i went on hopkins insurance and now--it takes literally weeks for my information to go through. i end up on the phone, trying to get people to pull strings just so that they can tell me, you know, a group and ID number, so that i don't have to spend $450 cash on my crohn's medication. again.

so far everyone has been very friendly and helpful. it'd just be nice if they'd be friendly and helpful without me having to make extra phone calls to make sure they're doing their jobs. the saving grace is that my pharmacy here--just a duane reade, but they're so efficient--is extremely friendly and helpful. when i went to get my first refill, knowing it'd have to be transferred from baltimore, i started what i thought would be a horrible process a week in advance. it took a matter of hours. "all we have to do," they told me, without my even having to ask, "is call down to baltimore and get the prescription. it'll be ready this afternoon."

in baltimore, mind you, at the rite aid i went to through grad school, this would've been an incredible production number. more often than not, i'd go to pick up my prescription only to find out that it hadn't been filled because, say, they didn't have the drug but hadn't bothered to call me to let me know. then, when i'd talk to them, after waiting in line for literally 25 minutes because laquisha was too busy chewing her manicure and talking to her friend about her date with da'quan, she'd be a total fucking bitch to me and act like it was my fault she hadn't filled the prescription.

it's bizarre to think that people would be more friendly, more efficient in new york, the city most people regard as extremely tough. but at duane reade (and countless mcdonalds, clothing stores, and restaurants) the customer service can't even be compared to that of baltimore. so i think, maybe, it should be "baltimore: if you can make it here, congratulations."

on the move

i can't believe i forgot to post this earlier, but i'd like if all of you send some powerful, positive thoughts to phong today: he started his move to san francisco this morning!

congrats, phong, i know it's going to be wonderful.

pitching and catching

last night was the second of two performances of scott and tim's cabaret, bloom. and, unlike saturday's show, it was a full house, raucous and friendly and drunk. just the way i like 'em. amanda, hilary, and nakia all came to see the show, and my friend andrea even brought her boyfriend. "if it's going to be a pain to come," i told her when she called yesterday, "don't worry about it. seriously. it's like 8 bucks with a two drink minimum and i only sing one song." "well," she said, "are you happy with your performance?" "yes," i told her. "then i'm coming," she said. and she did. with her boyfriend, who i've met once.

i did feel a little guilty, dragging my roommates and friends to the west village until 11 at night when we all work early. not least because it turned into a twenty-dollar evening for all of them. then again, we needed whatever kind of crowd we could drum up, so i appreciated their support. as hilary told me, "it was my new york debut." which is true, even though it was really laid-back and fun. it was a little bit like really glorified karaoke, where the whole audience is friends or friends of friends and they all want you to succeed.

when it comes to some of scott's songs, especially the ones this girl shanna (who blows her tits off every time she sings. it's great.) sang, i don't understand why they haven't been picked up by some pop producer yet. if scotty could just sell like, um, two songs that were hits he'd be set for the next ten years, could do nothing but live and write music and make it as a composer. his songs, honestly, are better than most of the shit that's out there on the radio. nay, all the shit that's out there on the radio. though i can't honestly say i've listened to anything except NPR for at least five years. yep, i'm a dork.

it's a rainy, wretched day here in new york. it's not pouring, thank god, but it's cloudy and raining enough to make my 30-minute commute to work take a full hour. and of course i was dripping sweat when i finally walked in the door, late. and i have to leave a little early, again, because the people from michael lucas called again and wanted me to do this photo shoot for some magazine ad. hustler? maybe. jugs? i hope. but probably something more along the lines of, i don't know, inches. the point is, the casting director called yesterday to get my clothing sizes (because YES, people, i'm going to be wearing clothes) because we're supposed to pretend to be baseball players. like, um, jerseys and shit. baseball hats. BAAAAAAAAAAAAHA!

something about me: i look like enough of a homo in my every day clothes. you put me in a sporting uniform of any kind--be it fencing, baseball, or croquet--and i look 569% skinnier and gayer. so next time you crack open the latest issue of honcho, look for me. i'll be the skinny hairy jew in the baseball uniform.

and i'm absolutely sure the ad's going to have something to do with "pitching" and "catching." god have mercy on my soul.

my girls!

just this morning i was listening to taking the long way, the new dixie chicks album i've been listening to on repeat for two weeks, and wondering, "hmm, i wonder how this did on the charts."

well, folks, apparently it debuted at NUMBER ONE on both the country and all-genre sales charts! read the queerty entry here.

crazy!

most days that i'm on the train, i see at least one crazy person. when my mother was here, she rode the train twice: once to queens, once back. she had the good fortune to ride the train with not one but two crazies. one man was loudly crazy, a drunk cuban who wildly gestured and yelled for two stops, then stumbled off the train. another was a more refined crazy, seated next to robin, who was fairly quiet for the long train ride but then started to pitch a fit when he rose to get off the train, yelling and punching the door before it opened.

i don't have good luck with crazies on trains, it seems. my first time staying in new york, when i was 21, a homeless man punched the window next to my head. the day i'd gotten here. this time, i rode my first train with a (literally) cracked out black transsexual. oh, new york.

this morning, the man who was seated across from me--seemingly normal at first--started to twitch and mouth words to himself more rapidly, until one of his eyes was squeezed shut and he was mumbling something to himself, looking hatefully around the car. i started to wonder, do these people have jobs? he was dressed pretty well, shaven. the crazy latin woman i've blogged about a few times--she obviously has a job. how do these people live?

and, more importantly, how do you get to that point? how do you get to the point where you'll ride around on a crowded subway car, ready for work, ready to face the world, talking to yourself with one eye squeezed shut? and, most importantly, is it possible that this could happen to me? someday, will my neuroses and insecurities drive me so far over the edge that i'll be that guy? i've never really understood mental illness; how it happens to one. does it just creep up on you one day while you're sitting there reading a book? or you're sitting there cruising myspace and -boing- one eye squeezes shut and you start talking to yourself? or is it a slower process, where the voices in your head that used to be your own voice switch timbre, become someone else's?

i'll just have to wait and see.

i'm listening to "rowing song" by patty griffin on repeat and can literally feel my heart breaking in my chest.

yep, that's it.

law and order

i got a text message from phong this morning that he missed my call last night because he was at the police station, having been witness to a crime. i have no idea what kind of crime; i assume it wasn't a murder, because he probably wouldn't have just sent me a text message about that. my guess, knowing baltimore, is that he was witness to either a mugging or an ass-kicking, or both. or maybe some inner city kids destroying some property. but my money's on the mugging/ass-kicking.

i was just reminded of the story we heard during grad school, in which peter lee, a crazy, taiwanese countertenor who was apparently trained in the ways of martial arts, kicked the ass of a would-be mugger and left him laying in the street. i'm also reminded, however, of when nimrod, a crazy, israeli baritone, was mugged at gunpoint with our friend (v)nicki. oh baltimore, the city that reads.

it's ironic, however, that phong had to be witness to a crime yesterday, because he's moving to san francisco on wednesday. not like, wednesday, august 1. no, wednesday. san francisco. new city. across the country. new coast. and, much like a big, final "fuck you" from baltimore, he's now spending time at a police station, having witnessed something going down. i somehow got out of baltimore without something similar happening; i kept expecting it. just, something. my car to be towed one last time or my apartment to flood or to get mugged again. even until recently, when i cancelled my car insurance after selling it, i expected to something to go wrong. instead, i got a big fat refund from geico. crazy.

so i wonder if phong will have to sign a statement. or even like get up on a witness stand and be cross-examined. maybe i've just been watching too much law and order, but i think it'd be exciting. just a little.

an open letter to new york

dear new york,

living with you is awesome. seriously. it's like nothing you could ever imagine unless you were actually here doing it. but of course you can imagine because, hello, you're new york. you not only have a fag bar for every different kind of fag, you have choices among the subcategories. your public transit is pretty amazing, and i haven't eaten at the same restaurant twice since i moved to you. since i'm able to do all of this and still not starve to death, i have to say thanks, new york. thanks.

but.

i don't know if you've noticed, but if you ever see me walking around on your streets, it's usually by myself, or at most with my trusty ipod that's, i'm sure, going to give out any minute. and as your friend london might have told you back when i lived with him, i don't really like hanging out by myself all that much. it's not that i need to constantly be distracted or be busy, but having another person around on the subway, at the apartment, makes me forget for a while that i'm mister single new yorker, unlike my roommate(s?), and unlike i've been for kind of a while.

so go easy on me, new york, because i'm still adjusting.

soaked

i don't really think you can call yourself a new yorker until you've been caught in an incredible, terrential spring downpour. i'm talking about the kind of rain that isn't just like, "oh, look. it's raining." it's the kind of storm that's scary even if you're sitting inside, the kind of storm whose thunder makes you think that it might just break your roof in two. by being stuck outside, preferably walking across downtown manhattan with nothing but a flimsy royal blue dollar umbrella between you and the elements, you truly learn what it means to have sold your car, to have committed to a life lived on foot. i can now, dear friends, call myself a new yorker.

we've been having storms here in new york unlike anything i saw when i lived in baltimore. they're the kind of storms i grew up with in oklahoma: big, imposing things that you can see coming, complete with crashes of thunder and lightning that you think might just strike your royal blue dollar umbrella. except when i'm out in them, i love them. when i'm out in them, i just crank old-school nine inch nails (downward spiral, anyone?) and make the best of a good, fast, wet walk.

by the time i got to rehearsal last night at 440 lafayette (formerly scott's old office, musical theatre works, before it went belly up) my converse were literally soaked through, as were my jeans and t-shirt. and that's with an umbrella. tim gave me a shirt to wear and i went shoe/sockless for the rehearsal. good times.

now i know that all of you, dear readers, are thinking to yourselves rehearsal? for what, robert? you're a star now and you didn't even let us know!? well, not quite. but close. my friend scott from college puts on a cabaret every year at the duplex (next door to stonewall, west village) with his friend tim. there was one duet that the, um, rock-by-way-of-broadway-by-way-of-creed singer they'd already hired couldn't sing, so they asked me to do it. so, yes. my first performance in new york is tomorrow night at the duplex. for those of you in nyc: duplex, corner of christopher street/7th ave (you don't get much gayer than that), tomorrow at 7pm. it's like 8 dollars with a two drink minimum. c'mon, you know you want it.

for those of you not in new york, wish me luck (and help me remember the words).

excuse me, i am from new york

it's promised to be a crazy day here at the mt. sinai medical center, because three of my four coworkers are out of the office. but, you know, stuff still has to get done. so i have to do it. yeah crazy. but i just had to blog, dear readers, to let you know that my family's visit was really fun. i've decided to call their whirlwind new york city visit (less than 20 hours) "momvisit 2006." if she comes in the fall, when my father has talked about coming (since he's never before been to new york and both my sister and i will be out here) i guess it'll have to be "momvisit 2006 v2.0" or something. we'll deal with that when the time comes.

we went to dinner last night at a restaurant called brick, which is down the street from my house. as i mentioned in yesterday's email, i made every effort to make sure that we did as little walking as possible the entire time they were in new york. this means that the n/w stop (my train) was literally under their hotel and that we went to dinner a block away from my house, and then dessert (at omonia cafe, of course) a block in the other direction. what's great about new york, though, is that you can do that: decide that you're not going to leave your block and still have a great dinner, outside, with good service. moms was impressed with astoria, impressed with our (messy) apartment. visit accomplished.

when i was in their hotel this morning (i met them for an early breakfast in the very new york-y diner that's attached to their hotel), i found myself wanting all of the people in there to know that i wasn't just a tourist. i tried to carry myself in a way that said, listen, i'm not staying here. i live here. see how i'm going down these stairs to the subway, all self-confident-like? like i know just where i'm going, hurrying off to work? that means that i have somewhere to go. because i'm not staying in this hotel. i'm a new yorker now. don't ask me why i cared if the fat midwesterners or the exhausted-looking front desk staff knew that i wasn't a tourist. i don't know.

scott and i have been joking about the line from some movie--i have no idea what it's called because i only saw it once, and i'm not even quite sure who said the line; tea leoni, maybe? is that even a movie actress?--in which the female lead is visiting some hick town. and she keeps saying, whenever something pisses her off, "excuse me, i am from NEW YORK!" like, don't fuck with me. i'm from new york. it's hard not to feel like that sometimes, living here.